Chapter 22
Adrian's POV
The suite reeked of her perfume when she finally left.
I sat on the edge of the bed, naked except for the sheet bunched around my waist, and stared at the pillow where Garcia's blonde hair had been spread out twenty minutes ago. The silk still held the indent of her head. Her scent—something floral and suffocating—clung to everything.
I fucking hated it.
I reached for the scotch on the nightstand and drained it. The burn did nothing to quiet the self-loathing churning in my gut.
This was the fifth woman in two weeks. Or maybe the sixth. I'd stopped counting after the socialite at the Metropolitan Club, the one who'd slipped her room key into my jacket pocket while her husband worked the room ten feet away.
They all felt the same. Empty. Wrong.
Nothing like what I actually wanted.
I stood and walked to the window, yanking back the curtain. Moonlight flooded the grounds below—perfectly manicured lawns that had cost my father a fortune. Everything in this house cost a fortune. Everything looked perfect.
Everything was a lie.
I caught my reflection in the window glass. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair disheveled. A faint mark on my collarbone where Garcia had bitten down.
I looked like shit.
I felt worse.
The worst part? I'd known Garcia would mean nothing even before I'd brought her home. She'd approached me at the charity gala with an offer so transparent it would have been funny if I'd cared enough to laugh. She wanted to be seen with a Winthrop. Wanted the social capital that came with fucking one of New York's most eligible bachelors.
I'd said yes anyway.
I turned from the window and headed to the bathroom. The marble was cold under my bare feet. I turned on the tap and splashed water on my face, then looked up at my reflection in the mirror.
My father's voice echoed in my head, cold and final: You're a Winthrop. You don't get to indulge in scandals. You don't get to destroy everything we've built for a woman who isn't even family.
Except she was family. He'd married her. Given her our name. Made her legally untouchable.
And then he'd died and left me that goddamn letter.
The words haunted me: I know you love her. I've always known. And if there's any justice in the universe, I hope you find your way to each other after I'm gone.
Permission. Blessing. Everything I'd wanted for five years, handed to me in his will.
And it meant absolutely nothing.
Because he'd been dead. Because the family was drowning in gossip. Because Aunt Elizabeth had made it devastatingly clear that any relationship between Evelyn and me would be proof we'd been carrying on an affair while my father was alive.
Because pursuing her now would destroy her.
The scandal would follow her everywhere. Gold-digger. Black widow. The woman who couldn't wait for her husband's body to cool before jumping into bed with his son.
I couldn't do that to her.
God, I was pathetic.
"You're a fucking coward," I told my reflection.
The man in the mirror stared back with hollow eyes.
Five years ago, I'd let them send her away without fighting hard enough. I'd stood at this same window and watched the car take her to the airport. I'd told myself it was for the best. That she'd be safer in Russia. That the distance would protect us both.
I'd been lying to myself then too.
The truth? I'd been terrified. Terrified of my father's disapproval. Terrified of what society would say. Terrified of how much I loved her—a love so consuming it felt like it might kill me.
I was still terrified.
Terrified that if I reached for her now, she'd push me away. Terrified that she'd meant it when she'd said we were impossible. Terrified that I'd already lost her.
I shoved away from the counter and went back to the bedroom. The sheets still reeked of Garcia's perfume. I ripped them off the bed and threw them across the room, then grabbed fresh linens from the closet.
My phone buzzed while I was remaking the bed.
Aunt Elizabeth: The Russells are coming for tea tomorrow at three. Isabella wants to see you. Please be presentable.
I stared at the message until the screen went dark.
Isabella. Sweet, perfect Isabella, who'd done nothing wrong except have the misfortune of being chosen as my future wife. She deserved better than a man who couldn't stop thinking about someone else.
But the engagement would serve its purpose. It would quiet the gossip. Stabilize the family. Give Evelyn breathing room.
It was the right thing to do.
So why did it feel like I was slowly suffocating?
I finished making the bed and lay down on the fresh sheets, staring at the ceiling. The ornate plasterwork seemed to mock me—all that gold leaf and expensive craftsmanship, symbols of wealth that meant nothing when you couldn't have the one thing you actually wanted.
I closed my eyes.
All I could see was Evelyn's face. The way she'd looked at me in the study when she'd said we were impossible. The pain in her eyes that she'd tried so hard to hide.
I was destroying myself. One meaningless fuck at a time. Punishing myself for being too weak to fight for her. Too afraid of what it would cost.
And the worst part? I knew exactly what I was doing. Knew it was wrong. Knew it was only making everything worse.
But I couldn't stop.
Because if I stopped, I'd have to face the real question: Was I willing to risk everything for her? Was I brave enough to stand up to my family, to society, to the entire goddamn world and say I don't care what you think, she's mine?
The answer terrified me.
Because I didn't know if I was.